


Out of joint

by TwelveLeagues



Category: Les Misérables (Dallas 2014)
Genre: Angst, Choking, Deepthroating, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, M/M, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Pretending to Be a Sex Robot, Sex Robots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-04-26 00:23:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14390214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwelveLeagues/pseuds/TwelveLeagues
Summary: Javert catches Valjean in his apartment and assumes Valjean is his Valjean-shaped sex robot. That's it. That's the fic.





	Out of joint

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Esteliel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/gifts).



> A (very) last-minute smut swap treat because terrible sexbot angst, why not?
> 
> There are consent issues on both sides here. From Valjean's perspective this is straightforwardly non-con and from Javert's it's identity-related dubcon. Proceed with caution.

Javert’s neighbourhood wasn’t great, although Valjean had seen worse. Hell, he’d survived in worse.

A bookmaker’s was operating across the street from Javert’s building, but only a few men were gathered inside. A woman in a tattered negligee stood on the street in front, bathed in the artificial light that poured through its glass windows.

She eyed Valjean as he passed. Did she recognise the mayor, dressed as he was in a hooded sweater? In the darkness he lost a little of his identity, fading into his surroundings until he feared he could be anyone. Did she see a slumming official on the prowl for something seedy? Or did she see the shadow of his former self?

He shivered. Being able to disappear into the night was useful, but it was dangerous too. How quickly would the town’s goodwill fall away without his white suit and respectable manners to shield him?

He pressed some coins into her palm, then stepped back out of her reach to make it clear that this was no transaction. She muttered something that might have been thanks or might have been a curse that echoed in his ears as he slipped into an alley close to Javert’s building.

The building itself wasn’t hard to break into. The automatic lights in the corridors flickered to life as he moved to Javert’s doors. But there were no security cameras. And, it seemed, Javert’s neighbour's weren’t the types to hang around outside.

But of course Javert’s own door was double locked.

Valjean pressed himself against the wood, caught beneath the glaring overhead lighting. Most of the houses he visited didn’t bother with more than the kind of snap lock that could be prised open with a credit card. Either they didn’t believe they had anything worth stealing or they figured thieves would get in one way or another. Better not to give them an excuse to break down the door.

Trust Javert to take every precaution. Valjean gritted his teeth, twisting his pick in the lock. Had he given himself enough time? Javert’s shift wouldn’t end for an hour, and he wasn’t the type to leave his post early. But what about his neighbours? Would they look the other way?

The reinforced lock gave with a soft click, and Valjean murmured a grateful prayer. The second would not be so difficult to prise open.

The frame was made from rotting wood, Valjean noted. A dedicated burglar could crack the door off its hinges with a solid kick. Javert must have known that as well as he did. But then, Javert had always had too much faith in the mechanisms of security.

The second lock opened easily enough and Valjean slipped inside Javert’s dark rooms, panting with relief as he pressed himself against the door. He turned to examine the locks, heart pounding. They’d come apart cleanly enough. Javert would still be able to lock his home up, for all the use it would be.

Why had Valjean come here? He’d told himself, setting out, that this was no different to any of his other night visits. When his people were in need, he found ways to help them, even if he could only do so in secret. And Javert had certainly seemed in need when Valjean had seen him last. Exhaustion was not easy to detect in a man as proud and guarded as Javert, but Valjean had suspected something was amiss.

 _So you have to break into his house and risk getting yourself arrested?_ He stifled a mirthless laugh, remembering how he must look in his hoodie and gloves. The fistful of notes and coins were heavy in his pocket, reminding him of his purpose. _Get in, do what good you can, get out._

He took a steadying breath then clicked Javert’s locks back in place before turning to get a look at his apartment.

It was sparse, as he perhaps might have expected, but Valjean could count five doorways in the darkness, four of them ajar. A reasonable number of rooms, then, for a single man living in the city.

Peering through one of the doors, he could make out a small tub and washstand. Another was empty except for a threadbare armchair that faced a small TV set. Deciding there was nothing worth seeing in Javert’s bathroom, Valjean chose the closest open door and found himself in a cramped kitchen.

No table, Valjean noted. Just a short counter, a stove and some near-empty shelves. Whether or not Javert could afford to eat regularly, he wasn’t keeping his supplies stocked. A half-finished loaf of bread was stored on the counter in a plastic bag twisted viciously tight. Bits of electronics equipment were scattered across the countertop: A circuit board, a screwdriver and some loose wires. Valjean peered at them, then shook his head.

He wasn’t here to figure out what the hell was going on with Javert, he reminded himself firmly. He was here to drop off the money and get out.

Still, there's was nowhere obvious to hide a handful of coins in the tiny kitchen, yet alone a small stash of bills. So he retraced his steps before pressing on through the fourth open door.

The room he found himself in was larger than the kitchen. A few bookcases held rows of dry-looking volumes that Valjean didn’t linger over. Recent histories, treatises on the law, that sort of thing, he supposed. Moonlight streamed in through the shuttered window, bathing the books in a cool blue glow. But Valjean’s eye was drawn to the cheap-looking desk that took up most of the space in the room.

A part of him, the part that knew better, wanted to walk away. There wasn’t time to linger in this apartment of all apartments. But he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the desk.

It was untidy, with open case files piled up and covering almost every surface. Valjean recognised the mugshots of more than one petty thief that Javert had brought to justice in recent months. All that overtime and Javert still took his work home with him. Valjean swallowed. Well that was hardly a surprise, was it?

He took a step closer, eyes scanning the papers for a familiar number or even the name he hadn’t heard spoken aloud in years. His heart pounded as he remembered the way Javert’s eyes fixed on him when their paths crossed in the street. It would be better to know for sure, he told himself. If Javert was on his tail, after all, he would have to prepare himself.

He lifted a sheaf of papers, some poor soul’s rap sheet, and dropped his fistful of coins onto the desk before sliding the papers back in place to cover it. _There_ , he told himself firmly. _The work's done, time to move_. But he remained in place, his hand moving over the loose sheets of paper, turning them over until he froze, caught between dismay and grim victory.

There on the paper was his own face, decades younger and etched with the misery of a young man who was about to plunge from hardship into torment. Valjean’s breath caught in his throat. He reached forward to trace the outline of the image. It must have been photocopied a dozen times over the years and his younger self’s features had almost vanished into nothingness thanks to fading ink and poor reproduction.

What might that boy have been, had it not been for Valjean’s terrible mistakes? Valjean’s breath caught as his thumb found the smooth skin of his own throat, before the collar and before the ink.

Behind him, he heard the double-click of two locks being opened. Then the creak of the front door and the weight of boots against a threadbare carpet.

Valjean froze, eyes darting in search of an escape. The door was not an option: it would lead him headfirst into Javert. The window offered a faint hope. Escaping from the second story wasn’t without risks, but it wasn’t impossible.

He eyed the window with suspicion. The frames had been painted closed at some point, but the paintwork was cracked enough that Valjean suspected it wouldn’t be too difficult to open. The only question was the sound -- an older window was unlikely to open smoothly and silently.

A delicate cough. Valjean whirled around to see Javert leaning against the doorframe of the room, unbuttoning his long coat. Valjean’s heart pounded as Javert’s eyes travelled down his body and then back up again.

“How many times do I have to tell you?” There was something tense in Javert’s voice, but he betrayed no surprise at the sight of Valjean. “The study is off limits.”

Valjean remained silent, wary, but Javert didn’t appear to expect a response. He finished unbuttoning his coat then leaned back against the doorframe, allowing it to fall open. The gun at his hip glinted, and Valjean shivered.

Javert reached up to loosen his tie. “Never mind, I’ll update your out-of-bounds settings later,” he grumbled, pulling the knot free and undoing the top button of his shirt. “I guess you aren’t sophisticated enough to remember instructions yet.”

 _Ah_. Valjean inclined his head, heart racing. Well, that explained that then.

He wouldn’t have taken Javert for the type to own a bot. And yet, he thought with an uneasy twist to his stomach, it made a terrible kind of sense.

And if he had a bot that looked like Valjean -- well, Valjean could figure out the implications of that later. For now, it was a lifesaver. All he had to go was play along.

The tie hung loose around Javert’s neck. He stretched, rolling his shoulders back. For a moment, all Valjean could see was an expression of sheer exhaustion that he had only suspected Javert was capable of feeling.

“Long day?” he offered hesitantly. Javert’s eyes shot up, locking onto him.

“Did you update overnight or something?” Javert scowled.

Valjean kept his mouth shut.

“Can’t just let a man set his property up the way he wants it, can they? Hours and hours calibrating permissions and responses, all out of the window because they’ve come up with a new feature.” He sneered at Valjean. “What is it this time? Can you predict the weather? Or read me the morning headlines, as though I can’t read them for myself?”

“I--”

“Oh yes. Perfect.” Javert laughed nastily, cutting him off. “Lots of new tricks, but expecting you to keep your old settings is too much to ask for. Volume off.”

Valjean snapped his mouth shut, heart racing.

“Better.” Javert bared his teeth in a predator’s smile. “Over here, inmate.”

The tone was all too familiar. Javert hadn’t spoken to him like that in years, but Valjean’s reaction was almost instinctive. Exhaling a shaky breath, he lowered his head and approached Javert.

“So you haven’t forgotten everything,” Javert said, reaching up to cup his face, thumb idly tracing the curve of his cheekbone. “I hear enough from _Monsieur le Maire_ in the daytime. I expect peace and quiet in the evenings. Understand?”

Valjean nodded, mind racing to catch up with what was happening. So Javert had a bot. Nothing wrong with that. Having a bot that looked and behaved like Valjean was… well, it was weird, no getting around that. But Javert being weird was hardly news.

“Rule number one,” Javert was saying, angling Valjean’s face up to meet his eyes. “I work in this room. And you have nothing to do with my work. I don’t want you in here.”

Valjean nodded, his mind casting back to the papers on Javert’s desk and that faded photo of his younger self, forever trapped on the cliff-edge of his own life. He wondered, briefly, what Javert’s robotic version of Valjean looked like. Was it a real-as-life model of that boy? Was that why Javert didn’t want it seeing the work he kept on his desk?

No, he reminded himself. Javert thought he was the bot, after all. And he barely resembled that young man. Javert turned on his heel, moving out of the room with a demanding snap of his fingers. Valjean hastened forward in Javert’s footsteps, heart pounding as Javert pushed open the door to his almost-empty sitting room and sunk down into the one chair.

Valjean hovered in the doorway, uncertain how to proceed. Javert had left the light off. Why? Was he keen to save on electricity? Or did it make it easier to imagine that the mechanical thing he shared his rooms with was a flesh-and-blood person?

His stomach twisted. But before he had time to think, Javert gave him an impatient look.

“Did that update scramble your circuits? Get over here.”

There was something in his tone that wasn’t quite what Valjean was expecting. The words were sharp, but Valjean couldn’t hear the contempt Javert held for real prisoners. Nor could he hear the lingering resentment that threaded through his tone when he addressed the mayor. Valjean approached the chair hesitantly.

“On your knees,” Javert’s tone was weary but almost indulgent. Valjean sank down beside him, mind working frantically. Was Javert’s gun close enough to wrestle from his hands at such close quarters? What about handcuffs?

 _Or you could just give him what he wants_ , taunted the voice in his head. _Get it over with quicker_.

Javert’s hand was on his face again, lazy now as he traced a thumb down Valjean’s cheek, moving down to his throat. He pressed in just beneath Valjean’s chin then smiled, as if to himself, as Valjean’s heartbeat increased beneath his touch. Then he unholstered his gun setting it down on the armrest and letting his legs sprawl open.

A light pressure on the back of his neck told Valjean where Javert wanted him. He swallowed at the sight of the bulge between Javert's legs. It was obvious where this was going. Still, at least it would bring him a little closer to the gun.

He fit himself into the space between Javerts legs, forcing down the pounding in his chest. Javert thumbed open the top button of his pants and reached for a remote control that had wedged itself between the chair’s thin cushions.

At the touch of a button the TV set behind Valjean jerked to life with a prickle of static electricity. And then Javert’s free hand was resting on his gun again.

Did he know the truth, Valjean wondered giddily. Could this be a ploy to humiliate the intruding mayor. Or, worse, do away with him entirely?

_Or maybe he just likes the way his gun feels right now..._

The volume was low, but it was obvious from the audible grunts and slaps that thrummed under the sound of Valjean’s pulsing breath what Javert was watching. Maybe this was for real after all. There was no way Javert would let a living, breathing human know he watched porn.

Either way, there didn’t seem to be any other choice. Hands shaking, Valjean tugged down the zipper of Javert’s fly, pushing layers of cloth out of the way until Javert’s dick jutted upwards, red and obscene and already leaking. Valjean tentatively closed his hand around it and Javert made a low, pleased sound.

“Yes, you remember this well enough,” he rumbled. He tightened his grip on the pistol. “Good. Make it last, inmate.”

Valjean squeezed his eyes closed, afraid of what would happen if he let himself look at Javert, afraid of what would happen if he let himself think about what was happening. He gripped Javert carefully, surprised somehow by the smooth, delicate skin as he slicked his thumb over the crown. He didn’t look at the gun or think about the stacks of papers in the study. If he narrowed his world to this single task, perhaps he could get through it in one piece.

He dared a few experimental pumps of his fist and was rewarded with a groan. The hand that was touching Valjean’s face tightened on his jaw and Valjean angled his head to ease the pressure of Javert’s fingers. There would be marks tomorrow, he thought. If he made it out of here, he was going to have to lock himself up in his office until they faded.

Behind him, the sound of slick thrusting. Some poor bastard making a sound he hadn’t heard since Toulon.

Yeah, he’d seen enough of this to know how it worked. One prisoner on his knees before another. A parody of a loving embrace, or perhaps even something like affection. Did Javert want that for himself? An experienced prisoner desperate enough to give the pleasure he expected? Or would he prefer Valjean as he truly was: Nervy and out of his depth?

Another thought occurred to him: What if Javert didn’t want either of those things? Perhaps Javert preferred the certainty of the machine. The smooth glide of steel joints working beneath synthetic flesh. The expert craftsmanship in service of order. The unquestioning obedience.

Well, give or take the odd glitch. And hadn’t Javert always seen Valjean as a glitch in some larger piece of machinery?

When he worked up the nerve to glance upwards, another possibility presented itself: Javert was not paying enough attention to care. His eyes were fixed on the screen behind Valjean’s head, his lips parted. The wet thrusting onscreen was increasing in pace now, and Javert followed the movie’s rhythm with a breathy gasp and a jerk of his hips.

“Your mouth now,” Javert grated. His hand found the back of Valjean’s neck, pulling him forward and down, tugging Valjean off balance until he was half sprawled over Javert’s crotch, his hands clutching at Javert’s legs. Javert’s dick bobbed in his face, smearing a wet streak across his cheek.

Javert made an impatient noise as he yanked Valjean’s head up again. And this time Valjean had the presence of mind to open his mouth before Javert dragged him down again. And then that hard length was pressing upwards, filling his stretched mouth as he tried to swallow around it.

Valjean was lost, inhaling the sweat and the scent of Javert and losing all certainty as Javert pulled him down onto his dick then let him up for breath before pulling him down again. There was no time to to get used to the weight of Javert’s heavy flesh on his tongue and his throat. Only the punishing pace of Javert’s hands, guiding him the way he wanted him.

Valjean closed his eyes and thought of the whir of well-oiled cogs, the reassuring thrum of the machinery in his factory. He tried to imagine what it would be like to let his mind go blank, to allow himself to have no purpose but this, day in and day out.

It was all too easy.

And then Javert stopped thrusting, stopped pulling him upwards. The sound behind him had changed, somehow, but Valjean couldn’t hear it beneath the throbbing in his ears. Javert tightened his grip on the back of Valjean’s head, holding him in place as his throat worked and his eyes watered.

For a dizzying moment, Valjean wondered just how long Javert would hold him down. A machine wouldn’t need to come up for air, after all. Clutched at Javert’s leg, half certain that Javert had found him out after all. Maybe this was how Javert planned to take his revenge, not just on an imposter mayor but on one who’d been foolhardy enough to intrude on Javert’s private property. The heat building in his throat and cheeks. He would black out soon. Javert wouldn’t have to leave it much longer if he truly intended to--

Javert’s cock twitched in his mouth and Javert groaned again, louder this time. And then Javert’s come was flooding his mouth and throat, and the hand on the back of his neck was gone as Valjean pulled backwards, gasping and coughing and swallowing despite himself. He leaned miserably against Javert’s knee, miserably attempting to regain his breath.

When he calmed down enough to look up, Javert was slumped back in his chair, watching him through half-lidded eyes. He reached forward to swipe a thumb over Valjean’s lip, smearing a trail of saliva and come over his chin. Valjean lowered his eyes, his shoulders quivering.

Strip him of his fine clothes and his high office and this was all that remained of him. Nothing but a vulnerable human body that could be used as easily as an automaton. Valjean lowered his eyes in despair.  
  
“Choking,” Javert said sleepily. The hand on Valjean’s face was growing slack. “Not a bad new feature. Better than a weather report, anyway.” The hand slipped down, and dropped to his knee, his palm open and his wrist turned upwards. “Be nice if you could remember your settings, though, wouldn’t it?”

His voice slurred as he fumbled for the remote control, shutting off the TV. Valjean’s eyes fixed on the gun for an anxious moment, but Javert didn’t touch it, shifting instead so he was half curled sideways in the chair. It would be easy to grab it now, but what would be the point? Javert had already done his worst.

“Clean yourself up,” Javert mumbled into the cushion. Valjean had picked himself up, his bad leg aching from the time spent on his knees. When he looked down again, Javert's eyes were already closed. His chest rose and fell in a motion that was curiously gently. Valjean rubbed his cheek with the back of a hand. No, he couldn’t turn a gun on a sleeping man. Not even now.

He left Javert slumped in the chair and closing the door firmly behind him. Time to get out. But when he reached the front door, with its double reinforced locks that hadn’t protected Javert from Valjean or Valjean from Javert, he paused.

His eyes were drawn to the one door he still hadn’t opened. The one that must lead to Javert’s bedroom. He hesitated. Hadn’t he already violated Javert’s privacy and paid the price for it? Wouldn’t it be better to leave now before Javert roused himself and things got worse?

There wasn’t time. There wasn’t time. He had to get out. But he couldn’t help but fear for what was hidden behind that final door.

Muffled by rotting wood and the sound of sirens outside, Valjean could hear the low rhythm of Javert’s breath. He was asleep alright. Valjean steeled himself and pushed open the bedroom door.

Squinting through the darkness, he could just about make out the unfortunate figure that knelt beside the bed. Valjean took a quiet step closer and it raised its head, eyes widening in mute confusion and despair when it took in the sight of Valjean.

“Trust me,” Valjean said softly, spreading his hands in what he hoped must be a calming gesture. “I am almost as freaked out as you are.”

He looked over his shoulder at the double-locked door, then back at the bot. It could be him, so carefully drawn was the resemblance. There was his own face, and there were the marks of years upon his skin. But in the bot’s expression, he saw nothing but his own younger self: Not the despair of his first day at Toulon, but the mingled terror and hope of a prisoner faced with an open door.

Javert would not stay asleep for long. He was certain of it. He crouched down to meet the bot’s eyes, warm and dark and terrifyingly familiar.

“Listen, I’m getting out of here,” he said. He held out a careful hand. He knew a little of what this being had felt from other men’s hands, but how else could he reach out to this thing that was so much himself? “Would you like to come with me?”

The bot stared at him for a moment, wary and wide-eyed. It lifted a hand to his face, its smooth, warm fingers finding the mess that Javert had left behind. It moved carefully, cleaning Valjean with a gentleness he had not felt in years and he felt himself sob, stifling the sound with his hand.

When his face was clean, the bot fixed him with its gaze for a moment and then inclined its head in a mute question. _Ready?_

And he was. Oh yes, he was. The machine took Valjean’s hands in its own, and together they stood.


End file.
